Old Wounds
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Tragedy strikes the Girardi family, bringing old friends back together. Very dark future fic, set nine years after season two. Mostly about Adam, and some Grace and eventually Joan. Did you expect anything else from me? COMPLETE.
1. Ghosts from the past

**Old Wounds**

_by TeeJay_

--...----...----...--

**Summary:**  
_Tragedy strikes the Girardi family, bringing old friends back together. Very dark future fic, set nine years after season two. Mostly about Adam, and some Grace and eventually Joan. Did you expect anything else from me?_

**Author's Note:**  
_There was something about Tote's latest stories (The Fix and Fix You) that struck a chord with me, making me want to write a future fic. And not one of those virtual season three ones (no offense!), no, a real future fic. I felt the strong urge to write all these wonderful characters in their mid-twenties, something a little closer to my own age. So this story is set eight years after High School graduation for Grace, Joan and Adam, so to say nine years after season two ended._

_Originally, this was going to go with one of my WIP stories, but I then decided I wanted it written in the first person, and that would just not go with any of them. Well, then I guess this is going to be its own little baby. And don't worry, I haven't forgotten about those WIPs. They're just put on hold for a (hopefully short) while._

_And... Ha! What did you expect, of course this is focused on Joan and Adam (okay, a lot of Grace, too). It's all I seem to want to write about these days. Sue me, it's what I do. It's also pretty darn dark, so please don't expect fluff. This time I made Adam this despicable guy—please don't hate me! But I needed that in order for this to work the way I wanted it to. Deep down inside, I really like the bloke, so there might be some redeeming along the way. _

_And don't expect the happily-ever-after thing with the all the couples still together. I hate that. Nice as it may be, it's not terribly realistic, is it? Not that this whole story is very realistic in itself, but, hey... Everyone's entitled to inventing their own little universe, right?_

_Thank you again, GermanJoan, for your wonderful comments, support and letting me borrow some of your beautifully angsty Adam/Joan moments for this story. And for completely agreeing on Alpha Dog hair-cutting issues. _:o)

_'Nuff said. Reviews more than welcome, as always. No puppy dog eyes this time because I hope the loyal ones will do it anyway and the not-so-loyal ones will want to surprise me._

**Disclaimer:**  
_These characters and settings are not mine. Nor am I claiming they are. They are property of CBS, Barbara Hall Productions, Sony or whoever else they might belong to. I'm not making any money out of this, although I wish I was._

--...----...----...--

"Dude. There's something you should know."

Grace's voice sounds somehow subdued and sad—not like Grace at all. I picture her in front of my mind's eye, with her blond hair and her defiant blue eyes, and I find myself wondering why she still says phrases like 'dude', when it's been almost eight years since we've finished High School.

"Rove, you still there?"

I press the ear piece of my cell phone closer to my ear. "Yeah, what is it?"

"It's about Helen Girardi," she says. I wait for an elaboration, but none is forthcoming. Is she going to have me force it out of her?

"Joan's mother? What about her?"

"She died." Her statement is bold and direct, just like Grace, and it takes a second for me to register its meaning.

I swallow and sink down on the couch because suddenly my legs can't seem to carry my weight any longer. I don't know why I feel my eyes filling with tears, since I haven't even fully grasped what Grace just told me.

"Rove?" I hear Grace's voice calling for my attention again.

"Yeah," I whisper, swallowing again at the lump rising up my throat. "How?" I ask her after another few second's silence.

"Car accident. Some freak drove his SUV right into hers. Apparently, she died at the scene."

"When?" I almost sob and it's all I can do to ask in monosyllables.

"Two days ago. Luke just called me."

'Naturally,' I think. Luke and Grace still keep in touch, even though their relationship didn't last beyond their first three years together. Everyone had been putting their hopes in them when Jane and I couldn't make it past our two-year anniversary. _High School flings aren't made to last_, isn't that what they say? I briefly wonder why that is.

"How is Joan doing?" I ask very quietly. It's the question I've been dreading, because shouldn't she be the one calling me, telling me her mother died? But I know all too well why I have to hear this from Grace and not from her.

"How do you think?" Grace asks, her voice becoming bitter, more sarcastic. In a softer tone, she adds. "Everyone's pretty much still in shock. Hell, I can hardly believe it myself."

"When's the funeral?" I enquire, suddenly overcome by the urge to fly out there to Arcadia and say goodbye to the one woman who, after I had lost my own mom, made me feel that love that only a mother can give you.

"On Thursday," Grace states.

That'll give me two days to get from Chicago to Maryland. I already mentally see me buying a plane ticket and packing my bags. "I'm coming over, maybe I can catch a flight tomorrow."

There is silence on the other end that, despite its wordlessness, speaks volumes. "What, you think I shouldn't be coming?" I ask, sounding upset suddenly.

"Dude, I think you're the last person Girardi would want to see." We both know she is not talking about Luke.

"Grace, Mrs. Girardi was..." I stumble on the words because they sound so corny when I say them. "... she was like a mother to me. I would like to think that I at least deserve to pay her my last respects. Don't you?"

"Look, I—" Grace starts, then pauses for a second, sounding unsure at how to put what she wants to say. "It's your call. Just don't expect the family to welcome you with open arms, especially her."

I sigh and use my free hand to rub it over my face. "Yeah, I know," I reply wearily. "I'll see you when I get there, all right?"

"Okay," Grace replies. "Let me know if we should get you from the airport." With 'we' she means herself and Tom, her boyfriend and, if rumors are to be believed, soon-to-be husband. Who'd think Grace would ever submit to anything so obviously conservative? But I don't have time to mull over possible marriage plans of old friends now.

"No, I'll be fine," I tell her, not wanting to impose. "Bye."

I hit the red 'disconnect' button with my thumb, holding the cell phone limply in my hand, staring at it absently. How did this happen? Life was going so well there for a while, and then it hits you square in the face once again. I look up at the ceiling, silently asking whoever might be up there, "What did I do to deserve this? And what did Mrs. Girardi do? You are one twisted son of a bitch, you hear me?"

--...----...----...--

Getting the plane ticket was easy enough. Not many people are commuting from Illinois to Maryland in January. I retrieve the black nylon bag from the closet and start packing a few clothes for the short trip. I don't have to mull over which suit to pick: Black with a dark gray shirt and a matching gray satiny tie will do.

A quick trip into the cellar makes old memories resurface. I walk over the corner where I keep all my art and my sculptures. Most of the big ones I have either sold or stored in the old shed in Arcadia, but a few of the small ones are laid to rest here with me. I carefully lift the once white, now slightly yellowed sheet off the table and take a minute to reminisce about High School and times when ideals seemed still to be within reach and finishing school seemed like the ultimate goal.

My gaze wanders along the dozen or so remaining small sculptures arranged on the tabletop and I squint my eyes, trying to decide which one would be worthy of Helen Girardi's memory. The one with the long, curled wires and golden finish to my right speaks to me, and I pick it up and turn it in my hands. My mind flashes back to High School and I see Mrs. Girardi standing in front of me in arts class after all the students have already left, saying only a few encouraging words to me, but completely making my day.

Ironically, I suddenly remember something she said to me after that Pop Art assignment that I first hated so much. So very clearly, I see the colorful picture of that cat painting in front of me as if I just painted it yesterday. She had liked it so much and told me then I could have a real future in commercial design. I snort through my nose. How prophetic.

My glance quickly moves over the sculptures again, but the one I'm still holding is the one, so I drape the sheet back over the others. As I lock the cellar door behind me and walk up the stairs, my eyes take in the sculpture in my hands. Back in my apartment, I put it on the kitchen table and study it in more detail from a few steps away. There's a strange longing growing in me to just pick up a welder and some metal scraps and start putting something tangible together, something in 3-D. Nowadays art is made with the computer, and I am no exception.

I carefully wrap the sculpture in a tea towel and place it in the bag, only barely fitting next to the pair of black leather shoes that I only just gave a shine. I close the zipper of the bag and make myself one last coffee before I have to leave for the airport.

--...----...----...--

The flight was uneventful, except for the unscheduled half hour wait on the runway and the odd turbulence as we left Chicago. Arriving in Arcadia, things felt familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The city's skyline still looked the same, but I felt like I didn't belong anymore.

Dad came to pick me up and we rode the 40 minutes from the airport to our old house mostly in silence. We talk on the phone at least every two weeks, so Dad knows pretty much what is going on in my life. Or at least the part that I am willing to share. A few quick enquiries about how the flight went, and then we both left each other to our thoughts.

Walking up the stairs to my old room introduces another level of strangeness. I have stayed here a couple of times after having first moved to the college dorm and then to my own apartment in Chicago, but tonight, surroundings feel uncannily surreal and my life out of kilter. Dutifully, I unpack the suit, shirt and tie from the bag, so they won't crease any more than they already have. I will take care of that tomorrow morning before the funeral, aided by the electric iron.

Dinner with Dad is awkward, if anything. He knows as well as I that recent events bring our own painful memories too close to the surface—memories we share but don't want to talk about. Attempts at small talk are made, but fail usually after a few exchanged sentences. We both breathe a silent sigh of relief as the potato stew is finished and dishes put into the sink for future cleaning.

Lying in my bed, staring at the somehow familiar patterns the streetlamps paint on the ceiling, I dread tomorrow. Everyone will be there: Grace and Tom, Kevin and Lily, an odd pair that has made it through the years despite challenges and hurdles, Luke, Mr. Girardi—and Joan. I haven't seen her in—how long? Close to four years now, it must be. Grace keeps me in the loop about milestone events, but that's all I get when it comes to sharing Joan's life nowadays.

Grace once told me that Joan still asked about me every now and then, which I took with a bittersweet smile. I was surprised she still showed any interest in me, after all I had put her through.

And they will all be staring at me, the unwelcome intruder, the unworthy trespasser. Back when I had been on the phone with Grace in Chicago, I hadn't cared about that, but now I am questioning my decision. Is it wise to turn up there tomorrow? Won't that only add to the Girardi's pain and sorrow? I take a deep breath and release it through my nose, my chest heaving heavily. I turn to lie on my side and try to find a comfortable position to sleep in. Closing my eyes, I hope that sleep will claim me rather sooner than later.

--...----...----...--


	2. Seeing old friends

I didn't attend the ceremony. I don't really know why, but being in a church with all the close friends and family was more than I thought I could bear. From afar, half hidden behind a set of shrubs, I watch the small congregation leave the chapel of the cemetery. From their hunched shoulders and comforting gestures with each other, I imagine that the funeral service must have been as emotional as I had imagined it to be.

My eyes search for her—and finally find her, her father's arm wrapped around her, her head resting on his shoulder, clutching a Kleenex. She is wearing a long, black coat which, I surmise, hides a black dress that will undoubtedly look intensely beautiful on her. I close the buttons of my own dark gray coat with gloved hands. Winter in Maryland may feel mild in comparison to the Windy City, but temperatures in the 20's are still cold enough to make your ears go numb and your breath condense. Now I wish I hadn't left the woolen hat at home. How ironic, I muse, when I used to wear those things all the time in High School, even in the summer.

Following the small crowd at a safe distance, I choose to hide as best as I can. Grace was right, I shouldn't have come. I hang back as everyone assembles around the grave, a huge gaping hole in the middle into which the light brown, wooden casket is being lowered.

I can faintly hear Father Ken holding a short speech and then family members and friends saying a few words of remembrance and consolation. They are a blur of sounds to me; I am not close enough to make out what they are saying. My own mother's funeral is still fuzzy in my mind, but I vaguely remember speeches laden with sorrow, memories being recapped—both sad and happy—and people you've never even seen before shaking your hand.

I wipe one gloved hand across my cheek to get rid of the single tear that has trickled down my face. My other hand closes round the sculpture I took with me and I direct a last glance at the mourners. I detect a flicker of movement from her as she suddenly stares in my direction—and almost instinctively I take a step back to hide from view behind the tree trunk next to me. I don't know if she saw or recognized me, because when I dare look back, her gaze is on her mother's grave again.

Turning around, the frozen ground crunches beneath my soles as I walk away, deciding that I will say my goodbyes in a less intimidating, quieter setting at a later point. I wonder if that makes me a coward. I guess I am, because experience has taught me that whenever I left myself vulnerable, something or someone would come and exploit it. So I had decided to not let it happen again. By this point, I had gotten avoidance and shallowness down to an art, and this was just another example of it.

--...----...----...--

As the car door closes with a snap and I hit the symbol with the lock on my car key's remote control, the indicators blink twice and the faint clicking sound tells me that the central locking system is doing its bidding. I look up at the town houses around, this is one of Arcadia's more frequented districts. Finding a space to park the car was hard enough, but I don't mind the five minute walk to Grace's and Tom's apartment.

I had driven back to our house after the funeral, accompanied by jazzy trombone sounds blaring from the car's speakers. Grace later called to invite me over for dinner at their place. I said yes, because, let's face it, did I have anything better to do?

I ring the bell next to the little sign that says 'Hailey/Polk' and the door buzzer sounds to indicate it will let me open the front door. I climb up the cold stone staircase to their second story apartment, where a doormat exclaiming 'wipe or leave' greets me. I have to grin at that, because it's definitely Grace speaking from the doormat. As I am about to knock, the door opens and Grace's figure greets me.

I quickly study her, she has put on a couple of pounds, but not enough to make her look chubby. If anything, she is glowing with liveliness despite the glum circumstances that brought us back together. "Rove," she greets me the way she always has. I am completely taken by surprise when she pulls me into a hug and I carefully return it. I almost don't recognize this mellowed version of Grace and I wonder briefly what Tom has done with the old Grace.

She looks at me, saying, "You cut your hair."

Almost embarrassed, I run my hand through my now fairly short hair that is at a length so that it just starts to curl ever so slightly. "Yeah. So did you." Her formerly shoulder-length mane is now cut short in a sort of perkily frazzled style, which definitely suits her.

I hang my coat on the coat rack in the hallway and follow her into the kitchen. The aromatic smell of fried food greets me from a sizzling frying pan on the stove. A closer look tells me it's something Asian with lots of vegetables and some meat—chicken by the looks of it. She takes the rice off the stove and gestures for me to sit down at the rectangle table set for two close to the wooden and gray kitchenette.

"I hope you're hungry," she says, making it sound like a mock threat.

I laugh. "Starving," I reply.

"Good. Because I didn't stand here for an hour, cutting vegetables for nothing."

That's the old Grace, the one I remember, and I'm glad she has not completely vanished. There's something to be said for constancy in life.

The food is delicious and we banter over insignificances for a while. She explains that Tom left in the afternoon for a conference in Europe for a couple of days. She talks about her work as a carpenter (which is weird, because I never pictured her as a handy person) and I tell her about the advertising agency and one of my latest ad projects. It takes us about half an hour to catch up on current developments. After all, we keep in touch on occasion.

Licking the last remnants of chocolate pudding off my tablespoon, I watch her putting hers down, leaning back in her chair. A gesture that says, 'Boy, I'm full. Aren't you?' She then leans forward again and places her jaw in both hands with her elbows on the table. Her blue eyes pierce mine as she asks more than states, "You weren't at the funeral."

I look down, suddenly not able to withstand her enquiring gaze. "Yes. No. I... I mean, I was." I look up again, my eyes meeting hers. "I couldn't do it, Grace. I stood there and watched from a distance for a while, but you were right. I shouldn't have come."

"I'm not so sure anymore, dude. I told Joan that you were here. I think she may have appreciated you there."

My eyes widen at these words. So maybe she _was_ looking for me at the funeral when I thought she may have seen me hiding out in the background.

"Yeah, right," I reply sarcastically. "That would have been a real rejoicing fest."

"Rove, what the hell happened between you two anyway?" Grace asks me, sounding too casual to pose such an important question.

I stare at her incredulously. "Joan never told you? In all those years?"

Grace shakes her head. "No. I mean, not really. Just that you were the biggest asshole she ever knew and something about perfidy and lying and that you should never dare show your cheating ass round here ever again."

"Yeah, that about covers it," I sigh. "Although she kinda left out the hitting thing."

Grace's mouth falls open. "You _hit_ her?"

"Once. I didn't mean to. I, I don't know what came over me. One minute we were arguing, shouting at each other, she was accusing me of all the things I'd done, and the next thing I knew, my palm collided with her cheek. I don't know if I was angrier at her or myself, it kinda just happened."

"It kinda just _happened_?" Grace repeats, mocking my feeble attempt at an explanation. "Rove, you hit your girlfriend, and the best you can come up with is 'it kinda just happened'!"

I sigh again, burying my face in my hands. "I... I don't know," I stammer. "Everything was so out of control. I mean, things weren't remotely rosy between us then, and, yes, I was sort of seeing another woman at that point. It was like everything was spiraling out of hand.

"The second I had done it, I hated myself for it. And I still do. I can still see the look of complete shock and surprise in her eyes, that look haunts me to this day."

"Boy, this is some revelation. No wonder she jilted you. I would have, too. I mean... she forgave you for screwing around with Bonnie, and then you cheat on her again? I gotta hand it to you, Rove, you have a knack for messing up."

Grace shakes her head again as if she can't believe it. "You just don't hit a woman." She looks at me contemplatively. "You didn't hit Maria too, did you?" she suddenly asks, alluding to the Italian girl I had gone out with for about a year during college.

"What? No. No." I deny vehemently. "Look, no matter what you might think, I'm not one of those abusive types that goes round, hitting his girlfriends," I tell her with a certain amount of contempt in my voice. "You should know me better than that," I accuse her.

She tilts her head slightly, a gesture that tells me she is mulling something over in her mind. "The Adam Rove I thought I knew would never hit a girl," she states.

"Yeah, well," I mutter in resignation. "Guess you didn't know me well enough. But I swear to you, that's not the guy I am today. At least I hope not," I add under my breath.

"So, are you going to see her at all?" Grace asks me brazenly.

"I don't know," I reply earnestly. "I don't think I should. It'll just rip open old wounds."

"Or it might heal them," she interjects carefully.

I look at her with a hint of surprise glinting in my eyes. "I'll see." It doesn't sound terribly convincing. I want to end this topic, stop discussing this rather depressing chapter of my life now. "If I don't, can you tell her that... that I'm sorry?"

"For what?" Grace asks.

That's a good question. For everything, I guess. But to Grace I say, "For her mother's death. Offer her my condolences. Please."

Grace nods and that's that.

--...----...----...--


	3. Chance meeting

A thin layer of snow has covered Arcadia in a blanket of white overnight. When I look out the window in the morning, it seems as if the world is covered in icing sugar, just enough to encase the green of the grass and the tarmac of the streets. Every now and then, the white is interrupted by dark streaks on the road, made by car tires, or footprints on the sidewalks and lawns, left by man or animal.

Dad is not there when I get downstairs, so I have my cereal in solitary silence, which is eerily underlined by the paleness outside. Why is it that when snow has fallen, the world seems to suddenly become mute, the volume of every noise tuned down a notch?

After I have rinsed my dirty cereal bowl, I go upstairs and pick something to wear from my traveling bag. Not that I have a lot of choices. I put on the pair of darker blue jeans that I took—not the baggy, loose-fitting style I used to wear in High School—and a black, knitted cotton turtleneck sweater with a t shirt underneath. I catch a fleeting glimpse at myself in the mirror and wonder where the dark shadows under my eyes have come from. Guess everyone ages over the years, no matter how much you try to deny it.

On my desk, the small statue I picked for Mrs. Girardi mocks me, nudges me to complete that last task I have to take care of while I'm in Arcadia. I sigh and pick it up to carry it downstairs. Putting on my brown boots and my coat, I leave the house and drive to the cemetery.

The wet snow sticks to my soles as I walk to Mrs. Girardi's grave, making it feel like I've got huge blobs of chewing gum stuck under them. The footprints I leave mark the way that I've picked. I know this cemetery too well, my own mother lying buried not fifty yards away.

I stand in front of Mrs. Girardi's grave; the earth shimmers through the white snow coating in places, still fresh from filling up the hole for the casket. No headstone has been set up yet, but flowers and wreaths have been laid down on the grave, the ribbons of them reading compassionate yet somehow trite-seeming inscriptions like 'Rest in peace' or 'In silent remembrance'. I crouch down and put down my sculpture in among them. Faintly, I hear footsteps approaching in the distance, but I pay them no heed. No doubt more mourners, saying goodbye to their loved ones.

Removing the glove from my right hand, I touch the cold earth with my bare hand and bid Helen Girardi a soundless farewell. Tears are in my eyes and when I blink, they roll down my numb-feeling cheeks. Life sincerely sucks.

"Adam."

I shoot up from my crouching position, the voice quietly saying my name so damn familiar to me, but not having been heard by my ears for years. I turn around to look directly at her and the sight makes goose bumps form all over my body. Her brown hair is still as long and wavy as I remember it, her eyes, though red and puffy, still as intense as ever. Maturity has not diminished any of her silent beauty. "Joan," I whisper, half in shock, half in surprise.

"What are you doing here?" she asks with a bitter and forbidding undertone.

I shrug my shoulders slightly. "Saying goodbye." It sounds more like a question than a statement.

"After all these years, you turn up here, sneaking up like a weasel, without even showing your face? Boy, you _are_ a coward, aren't you?" Now her resentment and anger shows fully, incredulity mixed in. "What do you think gives you the right to show up here now?"

"Joan, I..." I want to explain why I'm here, but the angry glint in her eyes makes me stop. Underneath it, I can see the pain and sorrow, even though she gives her best to hide it. What indeed gives me the right to be here? Haven't I asked myself that?

There are so many things I wanted to say to her if we ever were to meet again, so many things that I have gone over in my head a million times to make them sound right and honest. But now, her standing opposite me, looking at me with that cold and angry stare, I lose my nerve and swallow them down. Is there anything left to say at all? I bow my head and quietly say, "I better go."

"Yeah, leave," she snorts. "Go and hide, that's what you do best."

I turn around to face her, something bubbling up inside of me that makes me confront her. "What is it you want from me?" I ask her forcefully, now getting angry myself.

"Oh, I don't know," she shoots back sarcastically. "An apology, to start with? Some acknowledgement? I mean, Grace tells me you're here, and you never even call? If you liked my mother as much as I think you did, wouldn't you at least have the decency to show it?"

I wrinkle my forehead in confusion, but she goes on, her voice becoming louder. "And, and what do you think you're accomplishing here now? You haven't spoken to her ever since you left Arcadia. You haven't even _seen_ her in years! What makes you think she would appreciate you coming here? Making up for your screw-ups, is that it?" She lifts her arms as if she is speaking to some deity.

I look at her ranting on, taking her accusations like blows to my face, because I deserve every single one of them. "Don't you see?" her voice pierces the quiet. "It's too late now. Don't you see there's nothing you can do? Because she's dead," she spits out, her breaths coming out in uneven gasps. It takes me a moment to realize she's sobbing. "She's fucking dead!" she shouts. "Don't you see that!"

She stops, her arms now hanging limply at her sides, her shoulders sagged, sobs racking her body. I can't help but cast aside any of the ugliness that ever was between us and I take a step closer to her, my hands reaching out ever so slightly. Repulsed, she moves a step backwards and I stop dead in my tracks.

"Joan, I... I'm sorry," is all I can say meekly.

"You don't simply come here and apologize to me," she tells me between sobs, making it sound like a threat. She steps closer, her finger now pointing at me. "You don't get to stand at my mother's grave, saying how fucking sorry you are for everything you ever did to me, to my family.

"Do you even know what it was like for me?" she accuses me, her anger coming rushing back. She is now standing in front of me, her palm pushing into my chest, so that I stumble a step backwards. "Are you even aware of what you did to me?" She gives me another push. "How could you do that?" she yells, tears streaming down her face. "How could you do that when you loved me?"

I swallow, standing there rooted to the spot, my whole body having gone limp. Yeah, how could I do that? I have no easy answers, no explanations. She stares at me, waiting for an answer, but I have none.

"Adam, say something, for God's sake!" she demands in another shout. Her hand, curled into a fist hammers my shoulder now. "Tell me why you did that!" Her hammering becomes slower and then subsides. I feel her collapsing against me, her forehead leaning against my other shoulder. I am completely frozen, unable to move and I feel her suddenly clinging to me. It's completely irrational how she can ever want to be physically close to me again.

I can feel her shoulders shaking now and for a minute I can only stand there with my arms hanging by my sides. I finally, cautiously lift them and place my hands on her back, gently holding her like a fragile piece of china that I am afraid to break. I hadn't expected this.

I carefully put my hands on her upper arms, push her softly away from me and quietly say, "Jane." The sound of that name has somehow inexplicably found its way into my mouth before I am even aware that I have said it.

"I can't do this," I tell her. I carefully pry her from her grip on me. "I... I gotta go," I stammer. Without another word, I turn around and walk away, leaving her standing there, looking forlorn in front of her mother's grave.

When I stop to look back after I have walked a fair distance, I can see her kneeling in the snow, holding the sculpture I left, her head bowed. I feel a piece of my heart breaking that I didn't even know was still whole.

--...----...----...--

"Hi, this is Tom and Grace. We can't talk to you right now, but please leave a message after the beep," greets me a simple recording of Tom's voice on the other end of the line after the phone has rung three or four times.

"Hey, Grace, it's me, Adam. Well, you don't seem to be there, so I guess I'll leave a message." God, I hate answering machines! I never know what to say and after I have hung up, I want to call again to erase and redo the whole thing. Trying to put into a few words what I would have preferred to discuss in person, I continue, "It's not important, I just wanted to ask a favor, but since you're not there... Maybe you can call me on my—"

"Hello?" Grace's voice suddenly comes on the line.

"Um. It's Adam."

"Sorry, I was doing the laundry," Grace says, panting a little. "What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

"Sure." Her reply is short and simple, the way I'm used to.

"You have DSL, right? I just finished some layouts on my laptop and, well, they're pretty big files, so I don't wanna clog up my dad's phone line to send them to the agency. You think I could come over and quickly use your line?" I ask her, feeling slightly uncomfortable for imposing.

"Yeah, if you know how to set up the whole thing. My computer knowledge doesn't extend beyond switching it on and off and going online."

I have to smile at that because I remember the times when we unsuccessfully tried to set up online chat meetings with me being in Chicago and her here in Arcadia. We often ended up just talking on the phone because she wouldn't manage to get it to work if Tom wasn't there to help. "Sure, cool. When can I be there?"

"Well, I have to do some chores and stuff, but I don't think you'll mind me bustling around, will you?" she says cheerily.

"No, no. That'll be fine." I look at my watch. "Say, twenty minutes?"

"Yeah, I'll be here, just come over whenever you want."

"Okay. See ya." I hang up the phone and gather the laptop and the cables I need.

Three quarters of an hour later, I am sitting on Grace's couch with my laptop on my thighs, admiring modern wireless technology. From the stereo speakers blazes rock music by some band I recognize from having heard on the radio. As I watch the e-mail transfer progress bar move from left to right, Grace comes in, carrying two steaming mugs.

"Milk and sugar, right?" she asks, handing me a mug that is filled with a murky light brown liquid from which emanates a fragrant coffee scent. She takes the remote control and points it at the modern-looking silver set of electronic devices on the shelf behind her to tune down the volume to about elevator background music level.

Almost embarrassed, I tell her, "I usually have it black now, but this'll be fine. It'll be like old times." I smile at her from over the rim of my mug.

She lifts her own mug slightly. "To old times, then."

We sip our coffee in silence for a while as my mind starts to wander. Very out of the blue, I ask her, "Grace, do you remember that night in the shed? The two of us, after mock trial in High School?"

"Yeah, how could I forget?" She shoots me a knowing look.

"The week before mock trial, that's when things started to go sour. What happened?" I wonder aloud. "What the hell happened, when did we lose our way?"

"That was High School, dude. We all did pretty stupid things back then. It's a part of growing up, gaining experiences that help you get through life. You know, learn from your mistakes, isn't that what they say?"

"Yeah, except for me, it didn't teach me anything. I just went ahead and did it all over again. God, how could I have been so stupid?"

"Is this about Joan?" she asks.

"No. I don't know. Maybe." I sigh.

I watch her as she stirs her coffee with a tablespoon. "Why, what happened?"

"We... we ran into each other. I..." I start, the whole scene flashing in front of my mind's eye again. "I went to Mrs. Girardi's grave and Joan—she was suddenly there. She... she said all these things, shouted them at me and, my God, she was so angry."

My mouth curls into a faint, bitter, lopsided smile. "It's not like I didn't deserve them, but it was also like she expected me to... Gheez, I don't know." I rub my forehead so hard that I think it must be leaving red marks on my skin. "This is all really confusing."

"So what did you say?"

I look up at Grace questioningly, then down to study the fabric of the rug between my feet. "Nothing. I left."

Grace lifts her hands, exasperated. "You left? Man, if I didn't think you deserved a good whack over the head before, you do _now_!" More quietly, she adds, "I think you should talk to her."

"I'm leaving tomorrow. You know that," I say matter-of-factly.

"Yes, I know. But it's not like you don't have time before you go to the airport, right?"

"And what good would that possibly do? We would probably end up in another shouting match, Grace." My voice is resigned, yet determined. If I once believed in second chances, I don't believe in third. Or fourth, as it were.

"Rove, I think you underestimate the human potential for forgiveness." Who is this Grace sitting opposite me? This is someone I hardly recognize, yet can't help developing a certain fondness for.

"She already forgave me once. You know how _that_ worked out. Why would she possibly do it again?"

Grace suddenly goes very quiet. "Maybe there's something inside of her that still loves you?" she suggests carefully. "She might be too proud to admit it, but that doesn't make it go away."

I shake my head, not wanting to believe that. "No one can be that forgiving. Not even Joan."

"You don't give her enough credit. Time's a great healer, Rove. Why do you think she's still solo? I haven't seen her with a boyfriend for over three years, and believe me, it's not for lack of candidates." She gives me a poignant look. "Look, I don't mean you should fling your arms around her neck right away—"

I am suddenly reminded of a sobbing Joan, clinging to me at her mother's grave, and I wonder.

"—but... you know, it would be nice if we all were at least back on speaking terms. We could go to Bridge Club or Bingo Night together. I mean, consider the possibilities!" she says in mock excitement.

I have to laugh despite myself. "Unchallenged, yo" I say, the words feeling unfamiliar and fake on my tongue because I haven't used them in such a long time.

Grace now has to smile too. She recognizes the reference and I know she appreciates the attempt at reminiscing about old times, back when things were good—or as close to good as they had ever been.

I pick up an apple from the fruit bowl on the coffee table and twirl it around, holding it by its stem. "Okay, Grace. I'll talk to her before I leave tomorrow."

"Good," Grace says. I know that she will hold me to my unspoken promise.

--...----...----...--


	4. Gifts and Goodbyes

"Adam?"

My father's voice sounds raspy; I wish he didn't smoke so much. He stands in the doorway of our shed, knocking against the wooden doorframe to announce his presence.

I look at him to acknowledge I have noticed him.

He looks back at me with a questioning frown wrinkling his forehead. "What are you doing?"

"Have a look." I motion for him to come over to the desk where I have put up the old and dusty easel with a canvas on it. I've had to quickly rush over to the arts supply store because all the paint and brushes still left in the shed have dried out over the years of not being used.

At first, it had felt strange to paint on canvas again. When I had moved to Chicago after College graduation, I had eventually stopped painting and sculpting altogether, like a teenage habit you abandon when you grow up. Picking up a brush again felt like riding a bicycle after years of absence. You know how to do it, but the first few yards are uncertain and wobbly. A few brushstrokes, however, and I felt at home, comfortable, familiar.

Dad walks over the desk, standing behind me. He looks at the small painting that is almost finished. He places a hand on my shoulder that says more than words. To explain, I tell him, "It's for Joan."

I look up at my father and read the surprise in his eyes. "Are you two speaking again?" He knows the whole dirty story that drove me out of Arcadia.

"No," I admit. "But I hope we will be sooner or later."

He nods, and I sense he's not sure what to say. But there's no need, because I know he hopes for me that I'm right.

"It's beautiful, son," he finally says as he softly pats my shoulder and leaves the shed.

I take the brush and dip it into the mixture of orange and yellow on the palette to put the last finishing touches to the painting. Helen Girardi's face looks up at me from it, her face lit up by a warm smile. I survey it with squinted eyes, something one of the teachers at college taught us to do to get a better overall impression of the image. I am satisfied with it and carefully take it with me into the house on a newspaper page. It will dry faster in the warm rooms than in the cool and damp shed.

--...----...----...--

The nylon bag plops onto the back seat of the taxi with a thud as I throw it in. I'm all packed and ready to leave for the airport. I already said my goodbyes to my father earlier before he left the house. I get into the cab and instruct the driver to go to 2320 Euclid Avenue, shaking a few stray raindrops from my hair with my hand. In my lap, I clutch the picture of Helen Girardi, now framed and wrapped in transparent gift-wrap foil.

I watch the once familiar streets pass by as drops of water slide down the window in long streaks, propelled forward by the airstream. The snow from yesterday has all but melted, only tiny specs of dirty white remain in harbored and untouched corners here and there. As abruptly as the winter magic had come, it has vanished again from one day to the next. The damp cold makes my fingers freeze and I rub them together, wishing the driver would crank up the heat a little.

Too soon for my taste, we arrive in front of the house I have not set eyes on since I don't know when. I am hesitant to get out of the car, but I will have to, since the taxi driver has other customers to attend to. I hand him a few bills and step out into the street. Hesitantly, I approach the front door of the Girardi's rather imposing house, letting my finger hover over the doorbell button for a few seconds.

I finally gather all my resolve and courage and push down on it. I can hear the sound of a two-tone gong reverberating through the much too quiet house. A minute that feels like an hour passes and the door opens to reveal Mr. Girardi, clad in a black and red checkered bathrobe.

I want to open my mouth to say something, but Will Girardi beats me by a split second. "Adam. You've got some nerve showing up here." He makes no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice. "What makes you think you're welcome here?" He might as well have said, 'Get the fuck out!'

"Mr. Girardi, I'm very sorry for your loss," I mumble tonelessly.

"We don't want your condolences," he tells me loudly, abrasively. I hear Kevin's wheelchair approaching, no doubt having been alerted by his father's raised voice. Kevin appears next to his father and a flicker of hatred glitters in his eyes as they fix upon me. To his father, he says in a determined tone, "It's okay, Dad, I'll handle this."

As Will Girardi retreats slowly, Kevin addresses me with no less resentment, "I suggest you get the hell out of here before we call the cops and have you removed."

"Look," I try pleadingly. "I... I need to talk to Joan."

"_Do_ you now?" Kevin asks sarcastically. "And you think she is gonna talk to you?"

"Just for a minute. Please." I try to force some urgency into my voice to not make it sound like I'm standing here like a beggar.

His gaze wanders to the picture I am holding and he recognizes what is on it. He grabs it from me before I can strengthen my hold on it. "And what's this? Man, you're some sick, twisted bastard."

"No!" I cry out as Kevin is about to fling the picture out onto the front porch. His arm, however, is halted by someone else's hand.

"Kevin, don't," I hear Joan saying. She takes the picture from Kevin's hand and I see her eyes quietly shimmering with tears as she studies it.

"I made it yesterday." I dare not look her in the eye as I try to explain, so I stare at my feet. "Your mother was an incredible woman and I wanted you to know that. I... I would like you to keep this." I point at the picture, still not meeting her eyes.

I know that this is all I will get, with Kevin still hovering next to Joan, so I quietly bid my farewell. "Goodbye, Joan. And for what it's worth, I am sorry. For everything."

I turn around and walk away, the nylon bag slung over my shoulder. Tears have formed in my own eyes, but this time I can blink them back into oblivion.

When I have reached the sidewalk in front of the house, I hear Joan's voice calling out my name. "Adam, wait!"

But I walk on as if I'm being drawn away from the house by an invisible force that won't let me stop. She comes running after me, calling my name, and I can only stop when she plants herself in front of me, blocking my way. "Adam, stop."

I do and look her in the eyes—really look into them—for the first time since we broke up and separated eight years ago. What I read in them makes me want to rip out my sorry, unworthy heart and throw it in the gutter for the rats to eat.

"I think we should talk," she says boldly, waiting for my answer.

"What could possibly make you want to talk to me?" Hello and welcome, self-pity, my constant companion.

"Don't you think it's _time_ we talked?" she challenges me.

"I don't know. Maybe." I try to sound indifferent, but don't quite succeed. What I want to say is, 'No, I don't think so.'

"Adam, I'll be right back. Wait here. Please," she begs, and I already know that I don't have any choice but to obey. It is only then that I realize she is still in her pyjamas and wearing only slippers.

"Okay," I whisper. I watch her running back into the house and keep standing in the rain, hardly feeling the cold drops of water dripping from my hair, sliding down my neck into my collar.

--...----...----...--


	5. Starting over

Her red VW Beetle is stuffed with all sorts of items that she has to clear away from the passenger's seat before I can get in. We drive in heavy silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the faint humming of the motor and the windscreen wipers gliding over the front window. I don't dare start a conversation; I think she is glad I don't. We are both savoring the silence, saving the important words for later.

Joan has picked the road into town, going at a steady pace just above the speed limit. The quiet grows too heavy to withstand and Joan slightly shifts in her seat, staring out the windscreen intently. As if this is just any normal conversation, she half asks, "So, you're here." What I really hear her say is, 'Why the hell did you come?'

"Yes, I'm here," I reply stupidly, not knowing what else to say.

"You flew out all the way from Chicago, why would you do that?"

"I think you know why I'm here, Joan," I tell her quietly.

"For my mother's funeral? Oh _please_, you didn't even show up!" Her voice hovers somewhere between indictment and exasperation.

"I did show up," I admit. 'You just didn't see me, I was too much of a coward,' I mentally add.

"Then why did I not see you there?" Her tone is suddenly more curious, yet still accusing me silently.

"Because I didn't want to intrude. I didn't want for things to get worse than they already are. I thought it would make things more difficult and I... It was probably for the best." I chickened out, the spineless faintheart that I am. Isn't that what I should be saying?

I am suddenly fed up with all of this, us dancing around each other, me quietly loathing myself for my screw-ups, bathing in my ever-growing self-pity. "Look, Joan, can you stop the car?" I say decidedly. "I don't think we should be doing this."

Not expecting her to heed my words, she does anyway. "Fine," she says, resigning. Braking a little too abruptly, she swerves to the right into one of the vacant parking spots. I angrily slam the car door behind me when I get out and walk away, having completely forgotten about my traveling bag in the trunk.

In fast paces I walk along the sidewalk, not caring where I'm going. I am fairly sure she isn't following me, if only for the fact that I haven't heard her car door opening and closing. After a while, I get to a small bridge that spans one of Arcadia's creeks which run throughout the whole downtown area. I stop there and lean onto the railing with my forearms, absently watching the myriad of raindrops forming little circles in the water current below me.

Why is it that I can't seem to gather the courage to face her? Why is it that I'm afraid of the possibility of resolving our mutual loathing for each other? Why am I running away again?

'Go and hide, that's what you do best.' That is what she accused me of. But she's right, isn't she? What kind of a complete loser am I to not jump at the first chance she offers me to attempt to right my wrongs?

I've always been good at screwing up all the things that brought joy into my life. That's what I told Grace after things had fallen apart with Joan for the first time—after the Bonnie incident. Guess that hasn't changed.

All those years ago, I might have stood here, crying with self-pity and remorse. But in the time since I left Arcadia, I have learned to swallow it down and replace the sorrow with bitterness and silent rage. I lean back and grip the railing with both hands, bowing my head even lower.

I suddenly sense a figure approaching, stopping next to me. I don't have to look up to know it's her and there is nothing I can say.

She stands next to me in silence for half a minute before she very softly asks, "Look, Adam, don't you think you've been punishing yourself enough?"

'No!' I want to scream. 'There is no punishment great enough to pardon what I did!' I don't want to yell at her, so I strengthen my resolve, clench my teeth and grip the railing even harder.

"Adam, please look at me," she demands, and there is something so determined in her voice that it makes me lift my head and meet her gaze.

I know she sees the anger in my eyes because I am not making any attempt to hide it. With more urgency to her voice, she pleads, "We need to talk about this, sort this out. Please. If you can't do it for yourself, do it for me."

I look down again at the wooden crossbeams of the bridge. Maybe she's right. Maybe it's time I stopped running and hiding and finally faced my shame. "Okay," I softly say. "Maybe it's time we talked."

Wordlessly, she hands me my nylon bag. I take it from her and put the strap over my shoulder as she says, "Come on, let's find some place warm and dry."

--...----...----...--

The lit white, green and black Starbucks sign flickers, the way light bulbs do shortly before they stop working altogether. Joan and I jog towards it to get out of the torrent-like rain that has suddenly started to pour down. Her small umbrella fails miserably at protecting both of us from the rainfall as we run towards the entrance. By this point I don't care about the rain because my clothes are already soggy with rain, my hair plastered to my head.

We queue at the counter, ordering our hot beverages. Double-tall Caffè Latte for me, tall White Chocolate Mocha for her. Waiting for our coffees, this is the prelude—we're both holding our breaths for the main event.

Upstairs, all the comfortable chairs are taken, so we pick out a table with dark, wooden chairs in the corner, sitting down opposite each other. Columbian-sounding background music is trickling from the speaker above us as I wrap my hands around my mug, trying not to shiver. She looks at me. "I'll be right back," I hear her say as she gets up again, vanishing downstairs. Something in her walk is completely familiar to me, even after all these years.

A minute later she returns with a green towel that carries a Starbucks logo, handing it to me. "Here. You're soaked."

"Thanks," I mutter and accept it gratefully, drying my hair and face with it as best as I can.

"So—" we both say at the same time after a few seconds of uneasy silence. We look at each other; she is smiling faintly at the awkward moment. I try to silently convey to her she should talk first. After all, she suggested this. I'm just along for the ride. Yeah, right, who am I kidding?

"So, it was Grace who told you about my mom, huh?" she starts.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "I was pretty shaken-up when I heard. And then I got on that plane and I... I didn't mean any disrespect when I came here. It's just... I wanted to say goodbye in person, you know.

"No matter what happened between us, she was always a special person to me. I think you know that."

I look up and I see tears glistening in her eyes. I have to swallow heavily because I know better than anyone what it feels like to lose a mother. I remember the endless nights of crying, every little memory wrenching your gut, the emptiness of the house without her voice and her presence in it. I wish I could tell her all of that, comfort her in some small way to lessen the pain just a bit. But I have long forgotten how—the connection we once had is gone.

When I study her face that is now etched with a permanent sadness in her features, for a split second there is something—a flicker of that bond between us—and I try to hold onto it. Making my voice as compassionate as I can, I tell her, "It'll get better. Give it time."

"Yeah," she says softly, the disbelief too articulate in her voice.

Instinctively, I want to take her hand that is draped on the tabletop to underline my words, so mine unconsciously edges closer to hers. I catch myself just in time and draw back my own hand that finds its way back to the white handle of my mug.

Her eyes meet mine, and even though she is so much older than I remember her, she can still disarm me with a sheer look. I quickly avert my eyes, turn my head sideways, to watch the people in the street hurrying along to escape the drizzly rain that has yet to stop.

"Adam?" Her voice draws my gaze back to her—and there is more in that word than just her calling for my attention. I know I am uncomfortable with speaking about everything that has happened, but I sense this is the beginning of a very plain-talk conversation, one that is long overdue.

I quickly draw in a breath and throw all caution to the wind. "Look... What happened... I'm not proud of it. I've done a lot of things in my life I'm not proud of. But I think that was the worst."

I pause, playing with the white and green napkin on the table, looking at my hands as I do. I have a hard time putting this into words. "That was the worst—hitting you. That was when everything fell apart.

"I will never forget that look in your eyes. It was then that I knew I had to leave. Because there was no way I could ever make up for that."

I lean back, somehow out of breath. Joan sits opposite me, her hands folded in front of her mouth, her elbows on the tabletop. She looks at me and seconds pass before she says, "I won't deny that I hated you for a long time. And it might have been the best thing for you to leave then, because I think it would only have gotten worse if you hadn't. But as the years went by, and Grace kept telling me about what you were doing, sometimes I wished you would come back.

"There were times when I would sit by the telephone, choking up the courage to call you. But I never did. I never did because I wasn't sure... I wasn't prepared for your reaction, whatever it might be."

I release my breath, suddenly aware I have been holding it. I put my face in my hands and lean my head down, so that my hands comb through my hair. I look back up at her when I say, "I was such a fool. I know that what I did was unforgivable. But sometimes... I hope that we can at least... I don't know... not be like this. I'm not expecting you to forgive me, I would never expect that, but maybe we can just stop to shun each other."

She rewards me with the smallest of smiles. "Yeah, I'd like that. I think it's time that we put this behind us. This might be a good time to start over."

This is more than I would ever have ever expected from Joan, and a smile creeps into my features as I remember my last conversation with Grace. 'You underestimate the human potential for forgiveness,' she had said. When did she ever get so wise and insightful? Guess we all grow up.

"Shoot, my flight!" I suddenly exclaim as my gaze meets the wall clock behind Joan. I roam my jacket pocket for my cell phone. Finding it, I take it out and start to search my address book for the taxi company number.

"What are you doing?" Joan asks me.

"I'm calling a cab." What does she _think_ I'm doing?

She takes the cell phone from my hand and puts it on the table. "Don't be ridiculous, I'll drive you."

"No, you don't have to do that."

She gives me an almost chastising look. "Starting over, remember?"

I pocket the cell phone again. "Okay."

We get up from the table and leave the café together. Outside, it has stopped raining. I look up at the sky and deeply breathe in the cold but fresh air. It's like a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

I feel Joan tugging at my sleeve. "Come on, you'll miss your flight."

I follow her to the car and suddenly can't seem to wipe the smile off my face. Life sucks just a little less at this moment.

--...----...----...--

The American Airlines employee sitting behind the check-in counter puts a tag with 'CHI' in capital letters around the carrier handles of my nylon bag as it's being weighed. I grab the boarding card she hands to me and find Joan waiting for me a few steps away.

In front of the automatic door that separates the visitor's area from the passenger area, we stop. I'm not sure how to do this. Uncomfortably, I shrug my shoulders. "So, this is it."

"Yeah," she sighs but quickly smiles. I expect her to bid me a swift farewell, but she surprises me yet again.

"Adam, you know what I think our problem was? We didn't talk about all those things that came between us. I mean, at work I see all these kids and parents, and how they get stuck in all those bad places because they don't communicate enough. I think we might not have ended up where we did if we had only talked about it." She twirls a strand of hair around her finger and there is something completely endearing in that simple gesture. "Let us start talking again."

"Yes, I'd like that." I underline it with a small smile. "In case you don't have my details, ask Grace, she has my numbers and e-mail address and everything." As I am about to go, she calls my name again. "Adam?"

I turn around and she asks me, "Do you remember 'Jane'?"

I nod. Of course. Did she think I would ever forget?

"Do you think I could ever become her again?" she asks, looking at me expectantly.

"I don't know," I tell her honestly. "Maybe one day when we're both ready."

"Yeah, okay. I can live with that."

Her smile that followed is what I cherish for the rest of the flight. It is still with me as I exit the cab in a very frosty Chicago and unlock the front door to my apartment building.

THE END

--...----...----...--

**Tabitha's Secret**  
_**Dear Joan**_

Dear Joan  
I've almost forgotten the pane in the window  
Blue dress in the doorway

Dear Joan  
Help me remember the face I forget  
And the traps that I've sprung

I guess I've grown tired, it's just what's expected of me  
To tear your heart from the inside to the outside  
You know I was wired, I just couldn't help it  
The hundred thousand times I hurt you

Dear Joan, I wanted to say  
That I'm sorry for the screaming last night  
And the nights before  
Well I've wanted more from this  
Than anything I've ever known  
Dear Joan

Dear Joan  
Your face has a brightness that I've never seen  
In the years that I've known you

Dear Joan  
I pick up the pieces, but some scattered too far  
You say they flew when I kicked them

I know you believed when I said it was over  
You stood by me patiently waiting and brooding  
So deeply in love with every face that I've shown

Once I forgive, twice I'm a fool, three times I wrapped my hands around your neck  
While you're sleeping, you're quietly sleeping, sleeping and dreaming

Dear Joan  
Don't walk out the doorway  
Because if you did  
I believe I could honestly kill you

Dear Joan, I wanted to say  
That I'm sorry for the screaming last night  
And the nights before  
Well I've wanted more from this  
Than anything I've ever known  
Dear Joan

--...----...----...--

**Author's Note continued:**  
_Okay, this is where the story stops. I'm not completely ruling out a sequel or an epilogue or anything like that. But don't hold your breaths. And I want to say: I have never had such a hard time writing a story as I've had with this one. I didn't enjoy it any less, however. Hope you did too._

_Just a few things I'd like to say because this story is probably the one dearest to my heart of all those I have written so far. So, yeah, Joan and Adam eventually attempted to talk and start healing their "old wounds". (I hope I didn't rush things because somehow I felt I was for a while...) Almost-fluff there at the end, huh? Well, what did you expect, my pathetic little heart roots for the both of them, and as much as I hate Adam for what he did with Bonnie (and what he did to Joan in this story), the only way I can picture Joan and Adam in the end is together. Okay, they're not together in this story—not even close—but maybe they can be, will be. One day. Isn't that enough to know, that they may be? Of course they just as well might not. All for you to decide. Or for me at a later point._

_A huge thank you goes out to everyone who reviewed this story or contacted me with comments. You guys may not know how much this encourages you as a writer, even if it's "only" fan fiction. Thank you, each and every one of you. It is so flattering to receive comments about how readers feel about situations you've invented, dialogues you've created, about their take on what's going on your little universe. Some of your comments and reviews made my day. I wish more readers would leave reviews, but I am of course painfully aware that most readers are the passive types. Not that I don't understand or resent them for it—far from it. It's just so much cooler to get feedback instead of just looking up how many people have accessed your story. _:o)

_To pick up on the anonymous review someone left. Gee, thanks that you don't think it's an awful story. I'll take that as a compliment. _:o)_ And you think I made Grace an idiot? Really? You mean the lack of computer skills? Hey, we don't know anything about how well Grace handles a computer, we only know she can use chat software. I know a lot of people I don't consider idiots who couldn't set up a computer or software if their lives depended on it. Doesn't mean that Grace is an idiot (and I absolutely don't see her as one!). Sorry if it came across that way. Oh, well, guess you can't please everybody..._

_Last but not least, another small tribute to "Joan of Arcadia" from me: This show was and is a true marvel among television shows and I'm glad it has so many loyal and wonderful fans. Having CBS cancel it way before its time has become just a little less harder to bear with me writing all these stories of mine, and knowing that there are at least a few people out there who seem to understand and share my obsession with this show and these characters. Okay, enough with the mushy speeches. This isn't the Oscars... (Oh, and this isn't a goodbye or anything. I'm sure going to keep writing JoA stories, I just felt I needed to say this.)_

_For those of you who are following my other stories... I'm currently working hard on "Seeing Is Believing", although it's not easy for me to find the time, now that I started work again (which kinda sucks, but, well... :sigh:). I kinda got stuck on "Sweet Crusader", might be a while before I go back to that one. I also have a sequel for "Moonlight and Magic" tucked away somewhere in my head, but I don't think I'm gonna get to that any time soon. Of course "All Of You" is also not finished, but sometimes it's just too bittersweet (more on the bitter end, actually) to get so up close and personal to cheating Adam and hurting Joan. Man, I have too many works-in-progress right now. I hate it when I can't seem to finish anything! There's also this other project I'm doing with Tote, for which I see great things in the works, but it might be a while before that's "postable". Just thought I'd tease you anyway._

_Can someone please make me stop writing Author's Notes, mine always almost become longer than the actual story. I'll stop now. I promise. Okay, almost._

_One last thing before I go: "Dear Joan" lyrics and song belong to Tabitha's Secret and Jtj/Redeye and whoever else holds the copyrights._


End file.
